by T. C. Edge
The tension among the soldiers around the western gate grows more pronounced as the afternoon marches on. At any moment, we know that a strike could come from ahead, or any other point around the city’s perimeter. Everyone is on edge. Everyone primed to fight.
And it’s the waiting that’s the worst thing of all.
But while we cannot see much through the smog, there’s little the Cure can do to shield themselves from the ears of the Bats that spread around the walls. The eyes of the Hawks can be blinded. The noses of the Sniffers can be confounded by the fumes. But the march of so many men, and their stamping feet cracking through the burnt brush, is clear as day to those with augmented hearing.
They are the first to know that a force of thousands is on its way, and can even pinpoint just how far they are from the walls. But before too long, even those of us with unaugmented ears are able to note the rumble from afar, and even the deaf would be able to perceive the trembling of the earth as they grow near.
They’re less than a mile away, the Bats tell us, suggesting that the vast majority of the army remains as one. It seems they haven’t yet splintered, apart from the smaller contingents spotted moving south and north.
As they continue on, and the distant drum of several thousand feet grows louder, orders are given to set the giant guns on the battlements on them. Their range is a thousand metres, some shooting large explosive shells, others rounds of energy just like our pulse rifles. As soon as the enemy get with a kilometre, they’ll be stepping into a world of pain.
But they don’t.
As the Bats listen closely, calling down their estimations of how far the Cure are from the walls, one suddenly shouts out that they’ve stopped.
“How far?” demands Commander Burns, having quickly returned from Inner Haven.
“Just beyond the thousand metre mark,” says the soldier. “They’ve stopped just out of range, sir.”
Burns lifts a wry smile that only a man of such composure could at a time like this.
“They know our capabilities,” he says. “They know just how far we can shoot.”
“We should fire anyway,” suggest Freya. “The Bats might be wrong.”
“They’re not wrong,” asserts Colonel Hatcher. I can tell he’s got Bat powers himself. He tilts his head slightly, and listens closely. “No, there’s no point in firing, not yet.”
“Then what now?” asks Freya, her white eyebrows pressed into a ferocious frown.
“We do the same as we’ve been doing all day,” says Burns. “We wait, and see what they do. The ball is in their court.”
It is, and it’s worrying that they’re so skilled at the game. What we thought to be a murderous horde of barbarians has proven itself something far more. They’re organised. They have some extremely powerful hybrids and enhanced among them. And now we’re fully aware that they know just what our defences are capable of.
So we wait, and the Bats continue to listen for movement. Nothing happens, not for hours as the fumes grow stronger, and the light fades, the dark of night and the shroud of smoke conspiring to turn the world as black as tar.
“They’re waiting for optimum conditions,” Zander suggests. “When we can’t see a thing…that’s when they’ll strike.”
His words are ominous, and thoughts shared by all. We wait, ready, expecting the worst, expecting anything. Then from the top of the wall, a soldier calls.
“Movement! I have movement!”
I feel my muscles tense, my vision sharpen. Any second now, the big guns will surely go off, sending deadly shells and blasts of burning energy out into the darkening night.
But no, the guns don’t fire. The movement isn’t of the masses, still camped and waiting over a kilometre away. It belongs only to several men, the crunching footsteps creeping to the keenest of ears only.
Our chief listener, our most powerful Bat, is the one who spots them. His words draw us up to the battlements. I follow my brother up the stairs constructed behind the wall, right to the summit where our soldiers wait behind shields of metal, eyes searching through strips.
We approach the Bat as quickly and quietly as possible. Hatcher comes with us, and Rycard too. Burns and Freya remain on the ground. My grandparents are both absent, leaving their commanders to run the city’s defence right here as they operate further behind the lines.
“Who is it?” questions Zander. “Who’s coming?”
The Bat listens once more, and I notice Colonel Hatcher doing the same. Both shut their eyes and then Hatcher speaks.
“Four of them,” he says. “Four people only, walking right to the gate. No more than fifty metres out.”
The main Bat confirms, nodding. We wait, the Hawks now searching as far as possible through the smoky night. Less than a minute later, the four shadows are appearing, emerging from the shroud, walking calmly, casually, right for the gate just as Hatcher said.
Then I hear him whisper, just as I take in the outlines of the men.
“Our scouts,” he says. “They’re our missing scouts…”
A ripple of tension spreads down the line of soldiers manning the wall. Dressed in the black cloaks of the Stalkers, the scouts walk in a line, close together, expressions placid and eyes dark.
Hatcher calls from the wall.
“Stop right there,” he says to his men.
The Stalker scouts do as commanded.
“Should we open the gate,” I ask. “Let them back in?”
Colonel Hatcher shakes his head.
“No. We can’t. This is a trap and nothing more. These men are already dead.”
His words are loud enough to be heard by the scouts. The manner in which they react sets my teeth on edge.
Even through the darkness, the shapes of their mouths, curling into smiles, are clear. They all do so as one, and all lift their chins and speak together.
“The city of Haven is doomed,” they drone. “All who wish to live, flee this night. This is your final chance. Leave, and we will not pursue you. Stay, and all will die within your walls…”
Their words fade and melt into the silence. No one moves or stirs. No one says a word.
Then Colonel Hatcher turns his eyes left, then right, drawing the gaze of the soldiers on the battlements.
“They’re under the spell of the enemy now,” he says steadily, his voice slicing through the silence. “On my command, kill them.”
The Stalkers must hear, but none of them move. They just stand there, rigid, as our men lift their rifles and aim, locked in place by whatever order has been set to their minds. Hatcher raises his hand, holds it for a second, then drops it straight down to his side.
And as he does, several dozen guns go off, peppering the four Stalkers with rounds of red and blue and green. The black of their outfits lights up, and I see their faces before they fall. None are afraid. None are in pain. They have delivered their message and served their purpose. The enemy needs them no more.
They hit the earth and sink into heaps of burning flesh, four more of those tasked with defending the city now lost. And in my head, their words echo, and my faith that this city will survive continues to erode.
Zander must know that we’re all thinking the same. He must see it in the people’s eyes. Because it’s his voice that sounds now, bellowing out loudly, spreading down the lines.
“These barbarians are trying to frighten us,” he shouts. “They’re trying to make us cower behind these walls and doubt in our defences. We will do nothing of the sort! When they come, we will destroy them. They will not make good their threats!”
His words bring some murmuring of assent, and I see eyes imbued with a fresh dose of hope. It’s what Zander does well, inspiring the soldiers, many of whom have long worked under his guidance and command.
He may just be a boy, not yet nineteen years of age, but he’s lived through enough battle and war for several seasoned men. He will stand here at the gates, and dare anyone to pass if they wish to kill those who cower beh
ind. And right alongside him, the soldiers will be.
Right alongside him, I’ll be.
245
That night, as the bodies of the Stalker scouts burn outside our doors, no word is passed to Inner Haven about they message they were sent to bring.
“If anyone leaves the city, they’ll be killed or be added to the Cure’s ranks,” Commander Burns tells us. We’re all in agreement on that point. “I suspect this is a plot they’ve used before. The people are safer at the core of this city than out there beyond the walls.”
“I agree entirely, Commander Burns,” says Colonel Hatcher. “If we die here, then we all die here. There’s no escaping this threat out in the burning wilds.”
“It could also be a ploy to distract us,” says Zander. “They said ‘flee this night’, which suggests they won’t attack until tomorrow at the earliest…”
“We can’t read anything into that,” says Hatcher. “They could attack at any moment.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m getting at, Colonel.”
“Well good, let them come and get it over with,” grunts Freya. “All this waiting around bores me.”
“I’m sure you’ll get plenty of excitement soon enough,” says Burns.
“Good. Bring it on.”
I smile at the gigantic woman. It’s just the sort of attitude we like to see around here.
I’m of much the same disposition. There’s little worse than the waiting and the wondering. It gives you time to think, time to worry, time to fear, if not for yourself, then for those you care for. Our preparations have been made, and time won’t serve us anymore. In fact, it will only serve the enemy.
Because as time passes that night, the skies darken to a shade hitherto unforeseen in this city. Not since the dark days of so long ago has the world been so blackened. The thick fume spreads and chokes us, and all light from the skies above, from the moon and stars, is blotted and quenched. Whether there are clouds up there, I don’t even know. The fog of smoke, of war, is enough to cast the city in a deep and impenetrable shroud.
Before too long, it’s hard to see more than a dozen or so metres ahead. From the top of the wall, our Hawks are made redundant. Try as they might to see through the smog, their eyes rely on clear air. Normal darkness doesn’t affect them, but this darkness is far from normal.
It is by design, unnatural. Our enemy can control the elements, turn day to night. They can take away our powers, alter the conditions to suit their needs. Our Hawks cannot see. Our Sniffers cannot smell. And soon enough, they’ll show us that they can eliminate our Bats from the picture too.
It happens several hours past midnight, at a time when many of us begin to think that our enemy are resting. That they’re likely to wait for the next day, or the next night, to strike. It’s a hope, rather than an expectation. And so it soon proves.
With our Bats all listening closely for movement, and no word coming from them that the enemy is on the march, a piercing, screeching sound fills the air.
It’s high pitched and unpleasant to my ears, as it is to all those with regular hearing. Yet it isn’t intended for us, but for the Bats. I see their faces coil in discomfort, their shoulders hunch and eyes close tight. The noise seems to come from various points, right ahead of us to the west, but to the north and south too, closing us into a vise of sonic blasts.
It takes several moments for us to realise just what they’re doing. To realise that the smaller forces sent off to the north and south, those who broke away from the main army, had a specific task in mind. That the Cure have designed or discovered in the ruins of the old world machines that can negate the specialised hearing of our Bats as much as the smoke negates the Hawks’ sight and the Sniffers’ smell.
The sound is constant and unending, enough to distract our Bats from all other movement. We can no longer see or smell or hear them coming. Our Enhanced have been neutralised.
The movement behind the gate is now frantic. As we begin to realise what’s going on, our commanders quickly send word to all units around the city to prepare for an imminent attack.
It might now come from any angle. Hidden by the smoke and shrieking sound, we cannot tell where the enemy is. Are they moving for the gate right now, as one? Are they splitting, hurrying off under cover to various weak points around our walls?
We quickly huddle into a group and consider the options. A round of debate rushes, louder and faster than usual, all of us wincing at the noise and none more so than Colonel Hatcher.
“We should fire immediately!” shouts Rycard. “Light the bastards up!”
“We don’t even know if they’re moving yet,” counters Commander Burns. “We can ill afford to waste ammunition.”
“With all due respect, sir, we can ill afford to let them wander towards the walls unchallenged,” says Rycard. “Fire at them, show them there’s no way through. Show them what we’re made of.”
“Who agrees?” asks Burns, looking around the group.
Freya nods. Zander nods. I do too.
Colonel Hatcher has the final word.
“Unfortunately,” he begins, grimacing, “I think the enemy know what we’re made of already. They clearly know our range. They know how to neutralise our defences so we can’t see them coming. We can fire, but we’ll be doing so blindly without knowing what success we’re having. I say fire warning shots but nothing more. As Commander Burns says, we cannot waste ammunition.”
“Good,” says Burns. “Give the order, Colonel. And get some drones out there too…”
“Sir, they cannot operate in this smoke,” says Rycard.
“I know. Keep them low to the ground. I don’t care if they’re destroyed. They’ll give us some warning at least that the enemy is coming. Order all units along the perimeter to send them out.”
“Yes, sir,” nods Rycard, rushing off.
The order for warning shots is given, and I wait nervously as the large guns shift positions and prepare to fire. Above the incessant wailing, loud booms suddenly strike out, and fizzing balls of energy spread off into the mist. I watch them go from up on the battlements, and see them reach their targets hundreds of metres away, helping light up the world just a little as they go hunting.
And when they explode, about a kilometre out, I feel my heart suddenly lurch. They light up the world around them, and I see the army of the Cure still waiting out of reach. But now, the mass has shrunk. The army has split.
They’re breaking up and on the move.
“Impact, a thousand metres out,” calls a soldier. “No hit.”
I rush back down.
“They’re splitting apart. They’re not stupid enough to walk straight into the path of our guns! We have to bolster positions to the north and south.”
“I agree, Commander Burns,” says Zander. “They’re clearly not going to strike here.”
“Or it could be a double bluff,” says Burns. “Lure our forces elsewhere and then bring the attack here to the western gate.”
“Maybe, but we can’t wait to find out.”
“I happen to agree,” says Burns after a moment of consideration. “Head to the south, Zander. I’ll send Hatcher north. Our mobile units are on hand to move as soon as they need to.”
Zander nods and, without delay, begins rushing off towards a jeep as I trail in his wake. We jump inside, the drive to the southern gate at least five minutes long even through clear streets and with Zander’s foot refusing to ease up on the gas.
We pass numerous security points as we go, the outer districts around the entire perimeter of Outer Haven all fitted with patrols of men, some large and some small. They’re more fortified closer to the wall, some containing groupings of several hundred soldiers, all ready to rush to the action if called up.
They see us coming through the shroud, and know we’re not to be disturbed as we rush through, sirens blaring. Already, all patrols, units, and security cordons have been informed of what’s happening, communication between the city’s mi
litary extremely efficient.
It’s so dark and so misty that I can barely imagine driving this fast myself, the ends of roads and other obstacles quickly appearing before my brother’s eyes. He’s quick enough to react, his knowledge of the upper streets of the city just as good as that of the underlands. It allows us to travel at a tremendous pace, working through the fastest route heading southeast from the western gate.
Arriving, we find several units in place, though the fortifications here aren’t quite as dramatic. There are fixed units of soldiers, mostly City Guards with our own soldiers of the Nameless, as well as Con-Cops for backup and support. Peppered around are the Stalkers and our hybrids, most of them stationed at the front line unless they’re assigned to the protection of Cromwell or, in the case of Marler, Lady Orlando. Despite Marler’s soldiery skills, he’s been kept back for now, right at my grandmother’s side in Inner Haven.
Drum, I know, is stationed further back from the wall not too far from here. What I considered a rather safe posting has now become a little more fraught with danger. Should the city come under siege right here, the likes of Drum may be called up to join the fight.
Still, I really have no time whatsoever to spare for worrying right now. The world is simply too hectic, too loud, too dark, and too confusing to give me any space or time to think beyond the current actions I’m taking. I’ve never given much credence to the old, ancient phrase ‘to live for the moment’, but right now I’m certainly living within it.
I’m going from one moment to the next without thinking beyond that narrow scope.
All over the city now, we’re bracing for an imminent attack. It could come at any time and from anywhere. We might be right in the thick of the action here, with a thousand men just outside the gate. Or we could be as far from it as possible, the northern gate about to be besieged.
All we have are the drones sent out now to give some warning. Operating in silent mode, they slip from the tops of the walls, drift down low to the ground, and begin hovering through the smoky air, spreading out from the perimeter in a bid to find our enemy.
